


no regrets

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23232016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier makes a deal with a mage who's bested Geralt - he'll spare their lives if Jaskier agrees to never perform again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 664





	no regrets

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier was ill-equipped to handle the situation, that much was obvious. Geralt was limply laying on the ground, blood on his chin, and the mage - obviously a mage; even Jaskier could feel the magic coming off him - was approaching him.

“I’ve heard of you,” the mage said, voice clear and sickeningly sweet.

Jaskier shuffled his feet, taking a step back. He had no intentions of leaving without Geralt, but he’d be no good to him if he was killed on the spot. His eyes darted around the room - they were in some abandoned mansion - as he scanned for the closest exit.

“Yeah, well,” he said, forcibly calm, “My reputation precedes me.”

His eyes landed on Geralt; still limp, covered in blood. His heart squeezed in his chest.

“The White Wolf,” the mage said, turning at the last second to approach Geralt. Jaskier’s hands curled into fists, watching helplessly as the man crouched by Geralt’s fallen body. The mage looked over at him, smiling cruelly. “And his little songbird.”

Jaskier wanted to tell him exactly where to fuck off to, but he knew that would do him no good. Biting the inside of his cheek, hard, he asked, “What do you want?”

The mage reached out - Jaskier’s stomach lurched painfully - but he simply smoothed back some of Geralt’s hair, knotted with blood. “He turned me down, once,” he said, not even looking at him. “I offered him a job he couldn’t resist or so I thought, but this man - hm, he’s surprisingly full of morals, isn’t he?”

Jaskier didn’t reply; he assumed it wasn’t a question that required an answer. But he agreed, of course - Geralt was easily the kindest person he had ever met. Even if he was a little rough around the edges.

“When I heard he was back, I just couldn’t help myself,” the mage said with a laugh, standing up. “I knew I had to see him again.”

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat, “To what, kill him?”

“Don’t be so silly,” he said, spinning to grin at him wildly. “I didn’t intend to kill him, but then _he_ attacked _me_.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I am simply defending myself.”

Jaskier knew a thread when he saw it. “Okay,” he said, lifting his hands in the air. “I believe you, but as you can see - ” he gestured at Geralt “ - he’s kind of out of commission right now, so why don’t you just leave before he wakes up?”

His eyes flashed with anger, “No.” He turned away again, fingertips sparking with magic. “I won’t be so easily satisfied,” he growled. Jaskier watched, tasting acid, as the mage lifted his hands.

No, no, _no_. Jaskier rushed forward, and the man threw his hand up, blocking him with an invisible force of magic. He clawed at the wall. “Please,” he said. “I - I’ll do anything.” The mage turned to look at him, narrowing his eyes. “Anything at all,” he said, meaning it. “Just - just please do not kill him.”

He would rather die than sit back and watch someone kill Geralt, the man he loved. Didn’t matter if Geralt didn’t - or would never - feel the same way. He just needed him in his life, details be damned. As a friend, as a companion. He just couldn’t live without him.

The mage slowly tiled his head, pursing his lips, “ _Anything?_ ”

Jaskier gulped, nodding. “Anything,” he confirmed. Surprised - and grateful - he wasn’t shaking.

“Interesting,” he remarked, nudging Geralt’s body with his foot. Geralt rolled over limply. “For _him?_ ”

Jaskier held back from saying something he would regret. He had to be calm, he had to play the game. He knew how this worked; he was a bard, and perhaps a bit of a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot. “Anything,” he confirmed again. “Please.”

“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully as he stepped away from Geralt’s body. A good sign, Jaskier hoped. He approached Jaskier and with a snap of his fingers the invisible wall fell away. Jaskier only knew because he’d been leaning so heavily against it. He went stumbling forward and barely caught himself before he fell. “Perhaps you’re onto something,” the mage said, a little too brightly.

Jaskier swallowed his fear. “I - I am?”

He reached out, placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. He tensed, but smartly didn’t push him away.

“Why kill him when I could _really_ hurt him?” he asked, low, eyes flashing with anger. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder - at Geralt’s body, reminding himself again why he was doing this. He would do anything for Geralt. “I’ll let him - and you - go,” the mage continued cheerily, and Jaskier startled, looking at him again.

He looked surprisingly plain with dark hair, dark eyes. But even a human could feel the power on his skin.

“You will?” he asked in disbelief.

The mage squeezed his shoulder, almost enough to hurt, “On one condition, of course.”

Jaskier should’ve really seen that coming - he had dealt with enough mages, Yennefer included, to know they were sinister. “Fine,” he said, not caring if he sounded petulant. “What do you want?”

“Easy,” he said, still too bright. “I let you both walk out of here - _alive_ \- and you never perform again.”

Jaskier had been expecting many things, but admittedly not that. He blinked at the man. “What?” he asked, not really understanding.

“How do you think he’ll - ” he nodded at Geralt’s fallen body “ - feel when he learns he’s the reason you can never perform again?” His hand slowly moved up Jaskier’s shoulder, fingers curling around his neck. Jaskier took a shaky breath. “He does have a bit of a guilt complex, doesn’t he?” he asked, and Jaskier almost laughed because, well, he wasn’t _wrong_.

Jaskier loved performing. He remembered being young and the first cord he ever played, the way his life had changed forever. He knew others - Geralt included - sometimes thought he just did it for the money or the fame, but he didn’t. Those were nice bonuses, sure, but he had been playing for many years before he ever took off.

He enjoyed it; it was his passion, through and through.

But -

One look at Geralt and he knew his answer. He loved performing, but he _loved_ Geralt. There was no comparison.

“Okay,” he said, voice thick with emotion he quickly tried to clear away. “Fine.”

The mage looked outright giddy. Jaskier really wanted to punch him. “There’s a twist,” he said as his fingers tightened around Jaskier’s throat. “I won’t be cursing _you_ ,” he said, and Jaskier frowned. “Well, not _just_ you,” he corrected with a wicked grin.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought - ”

“Shh,” he interrupted. “I’m explaining.” Oh, Jaskier _really_ wanted to punch him. “You’ll both be cursed,” he said, nodding between them. “If you ever perform again, even just hum or play a single cord, he _dies_. Just like that. Instant, _painful_ death.”

That wasn’t what Jaskier had been expecting. “What?” he blurted dumbly.

“I’m not angry with _you_ , little songbird,” he purred. “So, I’m giving you the option - if you ever tire of him, and wish to play again, you can. Just, well.” He tilted his head back and forth. “Consider the consequences.”

Jaskier had been hoping he’d steal away his ability to perform _entirely_. It’d be easier. But still there was no backing down. Geralt had saved him many, many times over the years. It was his turn to be the hero. “Okay,” he said.

“Wonderful,” he chirped. “This might hurt.”

Before he could reply, there was a blinding pain in the back of his throat and he slumped forward, limp.

*

“Jaskier. Open your eyes. _Jaskier_.”

He gasped, air filling his lungs, and sat up. Geralt was hovering over him, looking caught between worried and _furious_. He pulled that look off so well, Jaskier thought, a little delirious. Fuck, his skin was still tingling with magic. “What the fuck did you?” he snarled. “Jaskier, why did you come here? And why does this place _reek_ of magic?”

Jaskier hadn’t exactly planned on what to do _after_ \- concerning Geralt, at least. The mage was right; Geralt had a guilt complex - a strong one, and Jaskier had no interest in adding to it. He smiled, only half-forced because he really _was_ glad to see Geralt up and moving, obviously okay except for a limp in his right leg as he helped Jaskier to his feet.

“I don’t know,” he lied easily. “I feel it too, though. What is it?”

Geralt stared at him, an arm around his shoulders. “Hmm,” he grunted. “You really don’t know?”

Jaskier smiled, a little brighter. “Don’t you know I’m a dreadful liar?” he asked, leaning his head on his shoulder and batting his eyelashes.

“Hardly,” he snorted, but the tension in his shoulders seeped away. “Come on, we should get out of here before that bastard returns.”

Jaskier knew that wouldn’t be happening, but he simply nodded and followed Geralt out of the building. He tasted something in the back of his throat, bitter and tart, and it wasn’t just the leftover magic. It was guilt.

*

But, really -

What was he _expecting?_ Geralt wasn’t an idiot. After two weeks of not performing, he knew something was up. He cornered Jaskier. “What’s going on?” he asked, eyes darting around his face, like he’d find the answer in the lines around his mouth, his eyes.

Jaskier smiled brightly. He had found a loophole, at least. He could still _write_ songs. Just not sing them. He’d been sending his finished songs to other bards (ones he knew and trusted) to play. Even if _he_ couldn’t sing praises of Geralt and his heroics he at least wanted others to spread the message that he was to be _revered_ , not feared.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, patting his chest. “I was just on my way to - ”

Geralt reached up, fast, and grabbed him by the wrist. He stared at him. “Jaskier, you haven’t even so much as _looked_ at you lute in two weeks.” He rubbed his wrist with his thumb. Jaskier didn’t think he even knew he was doing it. “Are you _sick_?”

Jaskier’s heart squeezed in his chest. Geralt looked so _worried._ “I’m not sick,” he answered truthfully. “I just - I haven’t felt like playing, Geralt.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, leaning in.

Jaskier pointedly did not look at his mouth. “Mhm,” he confirmed, nodding quickly.

Finally, Geralt released his wrist and took a step back. “Sorry,” he grunted. “I just - ” His eyes flashed with worry. “You’d let me know if something was wrong, right?” he asked. “Because I’d want to know, Jaskier, and - and I’d want to help.”

The guilt was back, bitter. “Of course,” he replied. “But I swear I’m okay.”

Geralt looked unconvinced for a total of two seconds before he nodded. “Okay.”

*

Four months passed, and Jaskier was cornered again. They were deep in the woods and Geralt joined Jaskier on his bedroll, an odd quirk to his lips. “You left it,” he said without context, and Jaskier tilted his head curiously. “Your lute. You left it at the last inn we stayed at.”

“Ah,” he said, quickly looking away. “Right.”

He _had_ left it; he’d grown tired of carrying it around, considering there was no point.

Geralt was silent for a few minutes. Jaskier focused on the faraway sounds of crickets and wild animals. “You’re hiding something,” he said finally, and he looked surprisingly _hurt_.

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat. He had done this - all of it - to protect Geralt and yet he had still gotten hurt in the end, and all because of Jaskier. To be fair, he honestly hadn’t expected Geralt to say anything. He made it perfectly clear how he felt about his singing and playing.

“Say I am,” he confessed. “What if I tell you there’s a reason?”

Geralt shifted, looking at him oddly. “I’d still want you to tell me,” he said. “You have made your passion for performing very evident, Jaskier. You enjoy it in a way I’ve never enjoyed anything ever before, and I don’t want you to give that up for anything.”

It was so sweet, so _thoughtful,_ so unexpected that Jaskier didn’t know what to say. “I thought you’d be happy,” he said, quiet. “I mean, you always said my voice was - ”

“I lied,” he interrupted, surprisingly honest. Jaskier stared at him, wide-eyed and waiting. “I enjoy your songs, Jaskier.” He paused. “Even if they are nonfactual,” he added after a beat with a smirk that made Jaskier want to kiss him.

He didn’t. Obviously.

He remembered what the mage had said, about wanting Geralt to suffer knowing what Jaskier had sacrificed for him. Obviously he could tell him without a problem; that wasn’t part of the deal. But he still knew Geralt would blame himself, as he was ought to do, and Jaskier really, really didn’t want that.

But Geralt was staring at him, worried and curious, and was that any better?

Jaskier looked down, “You know when that mage kidnapped you?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” he answered easily enough. “But what does that have to do with this?” Before he could answer, Geralt was gripping his arm, not enough to hurt. Jaskier raised his head. “Jaskier,” he said, rough. “Tell me you didn’t make a deal with that bastard.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, closed it. “I did,” he admitted finally. “But I did it to protect you, Geralt,” he continued, and he saw it: the flash of guilt in his eyes. _No_. He reached out and grabbed his hand, surprising Geralt. But he didn’t pull away, and so Jaskier squeezed his hand. “You were hurt, almost dead, and I did what I had to do because I - ”

He stopped himself, biting the inside of his cheek.

Geralt blinked at him, “You what?” he asked. “Is this because you think you owe me something for - ”

Jaskier’s stomach lurched. He squeezed his hand harder. “Because _I love you,_ you moron!” he shouted, loud enough that a few birds in nearby trees flew away, squawking. It was silent after that, painfully quiet. Jaskier expected Geralt to yell at him - or, worse, pull his hand free and walk away without saying anything.

But then -

“You do?” he asked in disbelief.

Jaskier gulped. “Yeah,” he said, trying not to cry. “I do.”

Geralt peered down at their intertwined hands. “Huh.”

“I don’t - ” Jaskier sighed. “I didn’t even mean to say that, Geralt,” he said, “I just need you to understand that I expect nothing out of you, and I did what I did because I _wanted to._ Because I couldn’t let you die, not like that.”

Geralt looked up. “What _did_ you do?”

Jaskier had been dreading this part. “It’s not complicated, really,” he said, aiming for breezy. “I just can’t perform. Like ever again, and if I do…” He hesitated, and Geralt squeezed his hand, a silent comfort. His heart skipped a beat. “You will die as a result.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said almost instantly.

Jaskier shrugged, “It’s okay, Geralt. I’ve been writing songs, which I can still do, and sending them off to other bards.” He smiled, only half-forced. “Believe me when I say: this is a _small_ price to pay for your life,” he whispered, meaning it. He would do _much_ worse for Geralt, actually.

“But you _love_ performing!” he exclaimed, and finally he pulled his hand free, just to card his fingers roughly through his hair. “It’s part of who you are,” he continued without even looking at Jaskier. “And I - I _took_ that from you - ”

Jaskier grabbed his arm, “ _You_ didn’t _take_ anything,” he said. “I made a decision, and I’m okay with it.”

Geralt finally looked at Jaskier again. “You’re just saying that because you think you have to live with it,” he said, “but you don’t.” Jaskier didn’t understand. Thankfully, Geralt continued, finding his hand again and squeezing. “We’re going to fix this. Do you understand me? Fuck that mage for thinking he has any power over us.”

“But Geralt - ”

Geralt smiled, just barely. “He didn’t know we have a secret weapon.”

Jaskier blinked. “Uh, we do?”

“Hmm,” he replied. “Just wait.”

*

After that, they traveled for days without stopping (well, except for sleep and food).

Finally, they entered a small town and Geralt pulled Roach to a stop in front of a dingy looking abandoned cottage. It was overgrown and falling apart, not what Jaskier had been expecting. He climbed off Roach and followed Geralt to the door, glancing around curiously.

“Geralt, seriously, what are doing - ”

The door opened, and his mouth snapped shut.

He should’ve expected this.

“Yennefer,” he greeted tersely.

“Jaskier,” she said, too bright.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Retract your claws,” he said, glancing between them with what looked like a hint of amusement, the bastard. “ _Both_ of you.” He turned to Yennefer. “We need your help,” he said. Yennefer folded her arms over her chest, squinting. She didn’t reply. “ _Yen_ ,” he sighed heavily.

“Fine,” she replied. “Gods, you both would lose your heads if they weren’t attached.” Turning away, she left the door open. “Come in. And don’t touch anything.”

Jaskier noticed, fairly quickly, that the cottage was enchanted. It was much bigger on the inside than the outside and it was overflowing with magical artifacts. He really, _really_ wanted to touch them. But he didn’t. See, he respected Yennefer (at least a little bit).

She led them to a bedroom - her bedroom from the looks of it - and sat on the bed. “ _Well?”_

Jaskier fidgeted as Geralt explained the story, “You’re one of the most powerful sorceresses I’ve _ever_ met, Yen,” was his finishing bit. Not too shabby, Jaskier thought. “If there’s anyone who can help us, it’s you.”

Yennefer crossed her ankles, “Flattery, not bad,” she remarked. “But I’ll want payment.”

Geralt stiffened, looking over at Jaskier. He smiled tightly, forcing it. Truthfully he _despised_ the idea of Geralt sleeping with Yennefer again, but just like the deal had been Jaskier’s choice, this was Geralt’s choice. Even if it wasn’t as payment, he was allowed to do what he wanted, sleep with who he wanted. It wasn’t like they’d discussed any of this.

Geralt hadn’t even said if he returned his feelings or not.

“Coins,” Yennefer said sharply, an odd quirk to her lips. “I want _coins_ , Geralt.” Geralt and Jaskier exchanged a sheepish look, and Yennefer hummed. “I want to ask, but - hmm, yeah, no, I’m good.” She stood up. “I’ll need a couple hours. There are other rooms, feel free to take one.”

They did just that as they waited. There were dozens of rooms, obviously another enchantment courtesy of Yennefer, but they ended up sharing a room anyway.

“You seemed reluctant to sleep with Yennefer,” Jaskier commented as they waited. He was writing lyrics, and Geralt was cleaning his (already clean) swords.

Geralt grunted. “You seemed against it.”

Jaskier almost laughed, “But I’ve _always_ been against it and that never stopped you,” he pointed out.

But then he looked over at him. “That was _before_ ,” he said as if that explained everything. Jaskier swallowed thickly, and waited because he could tell Geralt was mulling over what to say next. He had gotten exceptionally good at reading him over the years. “I didn’t tell you how I feel.”

“No,” he replied, mouth dry. “You didn’t.”

He had assumed Geralt would simply never mention it again. Jaskier was happy to pretend like it never happened as long as they stayed friends.

“It’s hard for me, sometimes,” he said finally. “I’m so used to _burying_ stuff. It’s like I can’t even tell what I’m feeling most days. But I think I always kind of knew I…”

Jaskier didn’t want to push, but he could tell Geralt needed it. “ _What?_ ” he prompted gently.

Geralt set his swords out of the way and scooted up the bed, closer to him. Their legs touched, and Jaskier shivered even through the many layers separating them. “I… _feel_ things,” he said, slowly. “ _For_ you, _around_ you. Things I’ve never felt, not even for Yen.”

“Oh,” he breathed, unsure of what to do with that.

Geralt reached out, placing his hand on Jaskier’s thigh, palm facing up. Jaskier blinked, confused for a moment, before he understood and laced their fingers together. Geralt’s hand was warm to the touch, and rough with scars and callouses. Jaskier never wanted to let go. “What I had with Yen - what I felt for her - was… _nice_ , and real. I don’t doubt that.”

Jaskier squashed his jealously, listening.

“But what I feel for you is almost painful. _Intense_.” He stared down at their hands, frowning. “I’m not good with words,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier smiled softly. “I know that,” he said. “Let me just ask you one thing, Geralt.”

He looked up, and there was an openness to his expression Jaskier had never seen. “Anything.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Do you want to kiss me?” he asked. He knew his palms were sweaty, but Geralt didn’t seem phased. He squeezed his hand, eyes flickering to his mouth. He knew this was it - the moment that mattered, that would impact the rest of their lives, their relationship.

“I do,” he grunted.

Jaskier let out an almost wet laugh. “Fuck. Okay.”

He didn’t really remember what happened next, just knew not soon after that they were kissing and he never wanted to stop. Jaskier bravely crawled in Geralt’s lap, straddling him, and miraculously he let it happen, hands settling on his hips. They kissed deeper, and messier, and Jaskier _groaned_ , and then the door fucking opened.

They separated just to look at Yennefer. “And _that_ will haunt my dreams,” she said blandly. “Come on.”

*

They both sat on Yennefer’s bed while she poked at them, muttering to herself. Jaskier loved performing, he would always miss it, but even if she couldn’t fix them, he would be okay. He knew that. He could find other ways to be happy. Maybe he’d pick up gardening; he’d always thought about it. And he loved flowers. But he also knew Geralt wouldn’t be so easily swayed.

His guilt complex really _was_ exhausting.

“Okay,” she said finally, taking a step back. “I think I can break it.”

And _yet_ -

As soon as he heard that, he was sitting up straight. “You can?”

“ _Think_ ,” she repeated firmly. Jaskier opened his mouth, and she threw a hand in the air. “Now stop talking and let me focus.” Jaskier pouted, but obeyed if only because Geralt wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Gods, he could get used to this.

Yennefer had them take off their shirts. Jaskier suspected she was just fucking with them until she leaned down and drew symbols on their stomach with some kind of mashed up mixture that smelled sweet. He had _so many questions._

But he didn’t ask of them. He could be quiet when he wanted to, thank you very much.

Finished, she stood up and stepped back. “This might feel weird,” she remarked before she closed her eyes, eyelashes fluttering. Jaskier waited, and for a moment - a long moment - nothing happened. He glanced at Geralt, and he looked equally as confused. Finally, Yennefer started reciting something under her breath and her fingertips glowed.

Jaskier had his problems with Yennefer, but there was no denying the beauty of her magic. He watched, enthralled, as the symbols on their stomachs started glowing.

It wasn’t too bad at first, just an uncomfortable itch under their skin, as she continued chanting.

But then -

The pain was unexpected and Jaskier gasped, turning to bury his face in Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt rubbed his back, obviously better at handling pain than Jaskier. Not a shocking fact at all, of course, but he still felt stupid as he withered in pain as Yennefer continued chanting. He dared to open his eyes and realized the symbols on their stomach were moving.

“Is - is it working?” he asked through the rushing in his ears.

Unsurprisingly, Yennefer ignored him, chanting loud and clear. Geralt just continued rubbing his back.

Realizing he was getting no answer, and the pain increasing steadily, he closed his eyes and braced himself. He knew exactly what he was doing of this worked: he was going to write a ballad about Geralt _and_ Yennefer. Most of his songs - prior to this - poised Yennefer as evil and selfish, and perhaps he was realizing his errors.

Finally, the pain stopped, easing slowly. Jaskier opened his eyes just a crack. Yennefer was slumped over, panting, hair damp with sweat.

He quickly jumped up and helped her to the bed. “Here’s the problem,” she said once she was settled, and Jaskier cringed because of course it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. “I think it worked.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “You do?”

Geralt looked at Jaskier and smiled, uncharacteristically soft. Jaskier’s heart leaped at the sight. Gods, he was beautiful and he didn’t even know it. He placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing.

“How is that a problem, then?” he asked, glancing at Yennefer.

She looked between them pointedly, “There’s no way of knowing for certain until - and _if_ \- you test it.”

Jaskier stiffened. “No,” he said, fast. “I am not doing that.”

“Jaskier,” he heard Geralt say. He looked down at the other man, who was watching him with an annoyingly calm expression. “Try.”

Jaskier squeezed his shoulder again, “I am not,” he said. “Not unless she knows for certain you won’t literally _drop dead_ as a result,” he hissed. “Fuck.” He moved away from Geralt, from the bed, and started pacing the room. “This was all for _nothing_.”

Geralt stood up and walked over, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to stop. Jaskier peered up at him. “Julian,” he said, and Jaskier startled, surprised to be addressed by his real name (he hadn’t been called that in _years_ , at least). “I want you to try.” Jaskier tried to pull away, but Geralt was stronger; he held him in place. “Julian,” he repeated, “ _Please_.”

“But what - what if you - ”

He couldn’t even say it. He couldn’t even think it.

Geralt rubbed his hands up and down his arms. “Just try.”

Jaskier glanced at Yennefer because surely she would stop him, but she was just watching them thoughtfully. “I - I can’t - ” Geralt wasn’t budging, though. He could be so stubborn. “Geralt, I - ” He stopped, took a deep breath. “Fuck. Fuck, okay, I’ll do it.”

He almost wanted to ask Yennefer if she knew anything about necromancy, but he didn’t.

Geralt smiled, and he looked so _encouraging_ it made Jaskier want to slap him. He understood, didn’t he? He was asking for _death_.

Taking another deep, shaky breath, his lips parted. He was frozen, couldn’t sing a word. Geralt leaned down. “Sing for me, my little songbird,” he whispered in his ear, and suddenly all the bad memories of that phrase - used by the mage - were wiped away. He wanted to hear Geralt say it again and again, because it was true. It had always been true: he _was_ his little songbird, and that’s all he ever wanted to be.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and started to sing quietly. It was nonsensical, and his voice shook.

He stopped after only a few seconds. He felt his shoulders be squeezed, again, and opened his eyes. Geralt stared back at him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. He lurched forward and swung his arms around Geralt’s neck. “You’re _okay_.”

Geralt hugged him back, wrapping his arms around his waist and tugging him closer. Their bodies slotted together perfectly, just like Jaskier had always imagined. It was like a dream, all of this. Except - “Do I not get any thanks?”

They separated, and Jaskier looked over at Yennefer, who stood with her hands on her hips.

He smiled and rushed over, throwing his arms around her. She yelped - very out of character for her - and Jaskier laughed wildly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he repeated in her hair.

Soon Geralt joined them, wrapping his unfairly long, strong arms around both of them. Jaskier barely realized he was crying, but it was purely out of joy.

*

A few days later, they left. Jaskier hugged Yennefer again, and she rolled her eyes before hugging him back. He knew it was a start of a beautiful friendship, an even stronger friendship.

He couldn’t stop singing on their way out of town. Geralt just smiled as he listened to him.


End file.
